


In-Between

by Enedda



Series: Before-In Between-After [2]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, just good old love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enedda/pseuds/Enedda
Summary: What happens when one leaves his ex-priest boyfriend alone for too long. No shoes chewed, but...





	In-Between

The weeks afterwards were strange. Some easy mornings and afternoon storms, some morning tornados and evening peaceful reconciliations. Marcus was cautious, ever watching his back. Always on the look-out for trouble, so when it happens - you are well prepared and ready for battle. Some types of upbringing do that to you.

Maybe it was this, maybe it was a splitting headache he woke up with, but this day was to be different than the others. All started with Peter returning from a weekend trip out of the state, something with counting fish in a lake with a name even he couldn't pronounce.

"Marcus! I'm home! And I have something for you! Mar-"

Peter's voice faltered and went quiet. He was definitely triaging the outcome of the first three days spent completely alone by his Hot Mess (TM) boyfriend.

Marcus grunted and burrowed his head in the pillow, not wanting to deal with it. With anything, really. He felt like his very thoughts were on fire.

Peter knocked on the door.

"Are you up? I know it's early, but... Marcus. I know you're not sleeping. You never sleep on your belly; it gives you back pain. Tell me what happened."

He was right, smart little bugger.

"Nothing happened. I got bored."

"Marcus..."

"Jesus, Peter! Nothing happened! I was alone, and I was bored, and Star doesn't like me when you're away, so I was painting. And I have different paint than usual, and it doesn't come off. Sorry. I will go to the city for more turpentine, later."

"But it looks like... I don't know. Like you used an explosion to redecorate the house..."

"I said I'm going to clean it. Later."

"And what am I going to do now? I'm dead tired; the kitchen is unusable, the bathroom is sticky with... something and the living room is a disaster. This room is the only one with some level of dignity left, and you lay in the middle of it, sulking. Even Star never did something like it, ever! You are worse than her!"

"Not the first time I hear something like that. And to offend me, you have to use something more. I'm used to much, much worse."

"I can't even...no. Marcus. I'm not doing this anymore."

Marcus stilled. Stopped breathing, stopped moving. Only the noise in his brain rose, telling him that's it. He did it, again. He cannot have anything nice. Anything he could call his own, anyone he could call a friend. He ruined everything and proved unworthy. Fuck. Fuck it all way to hell and back. Fuck it had the voice of his father.

When he felt Peter's hand on his back, he almost fell out of the bed.

"Hey, I didn't mean... that. I mean I'm not going to tell you to move out or anything... I'm just tired. We'll clean it together. But please, tell me what happened. Really. Not the "bored" stuff, not buying that."

"It's stupid. I'm a stupid, old fart." Marcus still didn't raise his head. He preferred talking to a pillow than to see Peter's worried face.

"52 is not old. And you're definitely not stupid. You are one of the smartest people I know."

"Yeah, right. And Star is a very bright dog, too."

"Her? She doesn't have a clue. She's pretty, though. I didn't say you are..." Peter playfully pulled the duvet and didn't finish his thought.

"Marcus..."

Marcus turned onto his back in a second, but not fast enough. He hissed and sat straight.

"My skin hurt so I needed some relief. It will heal."

"What did you use?"

"An old friend. Before you say something, let me explain. Please."

"I have been asking for this for a while now..."

"Sometimes I feel like my skin is too little for me. To narrow. Like it didn't stretch enough to cover my bones, my muscles. Then comes the pain. It hurts to wear clothes; it hurts to move. Distraction works best. Painting. Reading. Exercising till I drop."

"Prayer?"

"Sometimes. Pain works best. Kills fire with fire."

Peter sat close to Marcus and held him, careful not to touch his back where he painted it with bright red scratches. For him, they looked like twigs he's seen in Marcus' Bible. Thin and strangely beautiful. Then he touched his forehead.

"Marcus, I think you have a slight fever. Are you okay?"

Marcus shook his head. Then he remembered a headache and winced. "Just a headache, nothing more. It should pass. Too much has happened, I think. I was alone, Peter. For the very first time we've been together I felt alone. You didn't call, and I was too afraid to interrupt your work with a silly worried wife call."

"I've warned that I won't have reception... and at the hotel, I was so tired I fell asleep the moment I touched the bed. And you've thought..."

"Yeah. Exactly that."

"And the mess? You are always such a pedant, cleaning everything the moment you use it..."

"Church upbringing," Finally, Marcus was able to smile. "It's more a habit than a trait. When things get overwhelming, I can go somewhat ballistic."

"A very good word for that."

"A quotation. It happened a few times in one small parish back home, and the poor landlady almost collapsed. And I got transferred over a messy kitchen."

"Okay. First things first," Peter reached for Marcus' chin and looked into his eyes. "Nobody's getting transferred. You are staying. I still like you, even ballistic. I'm going to run you a bath; it should help with the headache and clean the wounds on your back. They look a bit angry. And if I've read you correctly, this fever is probably emotional. Then we clean everything. And this is an order. Understood?"

Marcus kissed him in an answer.

The headache got better; Peter was right about it (because of course he was).

Marcus wasn't able to wear the old t-shirt he chose for cleaning, so he just stayed topless, letting the scratches bask in the still early morning sun. They ate on the bedroom floor, talked about fish and music for awhile and when the coffee finally kicked in, decided to tackle the kitchen.

The mess was unbelievable. Dirty dishes everywhere in the amount for twenty people, paper and broken pencils, dog food on the floor, swirls of dark paint on almost every flat surface including the fridge.

Marcus stood in the middle of it with a very uneasy feeling. Peter grabbed his hand, squeezed it and held it for a moment.

"Hey, I'm here. I'm not angry. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I've wanted to renovate it for a long while. Now we get the chance."

"We?"

"You and me. We. Definitely. I have some sandpaper and white paint in the attic. When we deal with the mess, we'll have a renovating party. Marcus? Why are you crying?"

"You said we. I love your use of pronouns."

"And I'm fully aware of that, you little grammar Nazi. Start with the table, please."

They've managed to clear the majority of the space in less than two hours, which Marcus considered a miracle and just finished sanding the cabinets when he felt little drops of paint dropping on his elbow. He looked up.

"Peter, for God's sake, stop playing with paint and just paint!"

"But I am painting a masterpiece, dear..." he heard in an answer and felt another swish of white acrylic on his side, close to his chest. He got up.

"Are you suggesting a break?"

"I am suggesting that I've been away from my beautiful boyfriend for three days and watching him working topless for several hours is highly stimulating."

"Beautiful?"

"Yes, sir."

"I sincerely hope you have some turpentine left in this attic of yours," he said, embracing Peter with a contented sigh.

"Plenty."

 

 


End file.
